


positives and negatives

by hoverbun



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, Gen, Shorts, past & present
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 19:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16959990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoverbun/pseuds/hoverbun
Summary: Ace focused drabble collection. Positive interactions and negative interactions. Graphic content will be warned before each chapter.





	1. Chapter 1

Alessandro raises one eyebrow that you can see over his glasses.

“You’re not even holding it right,” he says. Not in English, of course–his tongue curls around his mother tongue, because while the warm summers and beach front winters have been _wonderful_ for his habits, he’s grown tired of. Well.

Americans.

So it feels right, because even if his brother can’t hold the golf club right, and his wrists look twisted together like he’s trying to do _god knows what_ with it between his legs, being able to tell him he’s a dumbass in something he really _gets_ is great.

Diego huffs and adjusts his hands. He shifts his new shoes on the green grass. Bright white, bought by yours truly, just for his visit. He keeps looking down at them, like he can’t believe what Alessandro pushed into his hands. It’s pretty obvious, especially with how his own sunglasses roll down his face when his head is that far down. “I haven’t golfed before. I didn’t think you would ever _golf.”  
_

“Times change, brother,” Alessandro says, with a grin. He pushes off his 4-iron, its wedge pressing into the soft dirt, freshly mowed, and saunters over to his little brother. He slides next to him, and takes position with his arms outstretched, posing for reference. “Like this. Aren’t you left handed? Move your hands.”

Diego does so. Then, Alessandro takes a slow swing back, and Diego mirrors that as well, minding the ball at his heel.


	2. Chapter 2

King’s good with his hands. He told him that with a wink, and it got him a rough palm to the back of his shoulder, undoing all the progress he made on the massage.

Ace shut up this time. David _is_ good at what he does, rubbing the heel of his palm into the tender muscle of Ace’s already aged back, massaging over where the hooks pierce every time and wear the skin some more. When you’re out of the trial, be it with blood down your back or your soul in the sky, it disappears. But the scar stays. It gets worse the longer you’re here.

“Stop squirming,” David murmurs, rolling his hands into both of Ace’s shoulders, half to keep him still and half to knead the tension out. “Can’t get a grip if yer twisting around all-like.”

“Feels great, babe,” Ace says with a sleazy grin, rolling his head back over his shoulder to look at him. “Can’t help myself.”

“Quit it,” he grunts, taking Ace’s head in his hands and turning his face back towards the campfire before returning to the knots in Ace’s shoulder. “Fuckin’ old man.”

Rough massages are the nicest. They leave you sore after, bruises that heal over the ache and make you feel ten years younger. Ace keeps grinning, and closes his eyes in peace.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for graphic violence!

The hooks swing in the wind that doesn’t exist. And when you’re this close to them, you can smell them. Thick, with the scent of blood.

A heavy foot kicks into Ace’s stomach, just below where his ribcage arches over his guts. He wheezes and thinks about the crass shape of anatomy, where the Nightmare’s foot drove harshly in, his back shoving briefly up against the wall of whatever house he collapsed against. One of those hooks, sharp and glimmering in the night, hang so close. Steel hands reach up to the curved steel and tap, tap, scrape themselves against the flank.

“Look at that,” the beast who could never have been a man speaks, twisting the hook in its rotating strap. “You ran right into one.”

Ace can’t keep his head up. The streak of five vertical slashes sting in Ace’s side, and pushing his sweating hand against them doesn’t put an end to the pain. But it keeps the blood against him. His right arm is going numb. The Nightmare pushes his head up with his foot again, before pushing him over with a disinterested nudge. Ace crashes on his side, his cheek and cupped hand pressed against the grass. Dirt gets into the tears of his shirt. His hat and glasses are gone. He thinks he might cry. He doesn’t. Krueger bends down at the knees, and grabs his shirt.

“Lets get this over with,” he murmurs, twisted to a grunt when he hauls Ace up off the earth. Ace lifts effortlessly, and his hand drops from the open wounds. The dream gives the monster an edge, and it shows, with how he lifts Ace with just one hand for the second it takes to throw his body on to the hook. The wicked laugh of Krueger’s nightmares trails away from Ace when his body screams against the horrific tearing in his shoulder. Maybe he screams too. He probably does.

He grabs the iron hook, wet with his own blood, and everything is just white hot pain.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for graphic violence!

They all have something sharp. But those fucking chainsaw freaks like to use _hammers._ You have a fucking chainsaw that gives you the strength to run from one end of a farm to the other, and you focus on the _hammer_. Maybe it’s because the broken shape of a man knows where to hit.

Ace’s focus is doubled, tripled, split into a million mirrors of the same image of grass in his face and the drops of blood that this fucking hillbilly shakes off his hammer. His blood, thrown to the ground like it’s regular wear and filth you gathered up. He can feel warm blood rolling down his forehead, cheek and jaw, soaking his hat and hair. His right eye is starting to haze. The mirrors start to blur.

The beast looks at his weapon with confidence. Ace doesn’t see that. He knows something’s been split in his skull, and his mouth starts to become thick with his own blood as it leaks down. He’s barely conscious, spread out on the tall grass of Coldwind itself and beneath the hanging tree. In the air, rotten meat permeates and sours the copper smell of his bleeding skull.

Distantly, he feels something grab his foot. The Hillbilly drags him through the dirt, losing the hat somewhere. Ace probably won’t even make it to the hook. If he does, he won’t be able to fight back the oncoming hunger of the beast in the sky. That’s alright. For now - he’ll give up. The ache throbs.  



End file.
